After a few seconds, Marcus looked up. “I got the hell outta there. I must’ve run down the creekbed a couple miles. Then I circled back and got in my truck. But no way was I goin’ home, ’cause they’d be waitin’. That bastard Rich told ’em I got the other half. He must’ve hid it somewhere, thinkin’ if they got half of it, they’d come after me for the rest and leave him alone. So I drove over here. Next thing I hear, my old girlfriend’s been killed. Jesus! What’d she ever do to them? She didn’t know nothin’ about it.”
Father John could hear his own breathing, mingled with that of the couple scrunched together in the chair. Somewhere a faucet was dripping. His theory was almost right. The blond guy who had gone to Annie Chambeau’s was Gary. He’d been looking for Marcus, hoping Marcus would lead him to Rich. Somehow he had found Rich, killed him, dumped his body on Rendezvous Road, and then retrieved it. And he was still looking for Marcus.
“What kind of pickups were in Rich’s driveway?” Father John asked.
“What?” Marcus blinked. “Just pickups. I don’t remember.”
“Think, Marcus. It’s important.”
“You said one was gray, right?” Jennifer said softly.
“Yeah, a gray Chevy.”
“The other?”
“I guess it was a Dodge. Yeah. A green Dodge.”
Father John placed his palms together, as if in prayer. Dear Lord. Ty had been following him since Monday, ever since he’d gone to Easter Egg Village looking for Marcus. Ty must have been watching Marcus’s house. He must have decided to follow the red Toyota pickup, hoping that sooner or later whoever had come looking for Marcus would know where to find him. But why had Ty rammed the Toyota on Seventeen-Mile Road? Out of frustration? Or had that been an accident? Had he just gotten so close, he’d slid into the tailgate when Father John had slowed down?
The next time he had spotted the green truck, it had stayed a good distance behind, as if the driver wanted to remain inconspicuous. Like tonight, when the truck rolled north past Herb’s Place. Had Ty backtracked, come through an alley, and parked where he could see the parking lot? Had Ty waited and followed him here? Was he outside now?
“We’ve got to call the police,” Father John said.
“I thought you was gonna help us,” Jennifer said, a whine in her voice. “And besides, I don’t exactly have a phone.”
“No way.” Marcus managed to liberate himself and was on his feet, leaving the girl propped in the chair alone, like a mannequin. “They’ll send me back to prison. I’d rather be dead.”
Father John stared at the young man a moment. Nothing was worse for an Arapaho than to be locked up, confined to a small space. It was like death. Being alive meant being free to walk the earth, breathe the fresh air, and feel the wind sweeping over you. “A lawyer might be able to get you some kind of deal,” he said finally.
Marcus emitted another tight, hopeless snort. “Last time some lawyer got me a deal, I went down for three years. I don’t want no lawyers. You talk to Chief Banner for me, Father, okay?”
Father John’s instinct was to insist they go to Fort Washakie right away, to insist on driving them there. But he knew that would lead to an argument, and there wasn’t time to argue. Not when Ty might be waiting outside. He’d probably already called Gary, who might burst through the door at any moment.
Father John said, “You both have to leave this house now.”
“Nobody knows Marcus is here,” said Jennifer. “We hid his truck in the garage out back.”
Father John ignored her. He was thinking where to send them. The guest house was a possibility, but he had already told Vicky to take Susan there. He prayed Vicky had taken his advice.
Suddenly the girl blurted out, “That’s how come you want to know about the trucks. You seen them. They followed you here, didn’t they?” She sprang to her feet, gripping Marcus’s arm. He looked stunned, as if he’d had the air knocked out of him.
“We gotta get out of here,” the girl said. “We can go back to the motel.” She took a deep breath and said, “We was hiding at that motel out north on the highway after those cowboys beat him up, in case they came lookin’ for us.”
Father John got to his feet. His legs felt cramped and stiff. “You leave first. Go out the back door. They’re watching for me to come out the front. I’ll wait until you drive away before I leave. I’ll call you at the motel as soon as I talk to Chief Banner.”
Jennifer darted across the room and disappeared through a doorway. Marcus followed her. After a minute, they were back, wearing their parkas. The girl had one boot on and was hopping around as she pulled on the other, grasping a little pile of clothes under her arm.
Father John let them out the back door and watched as they disappeared around the dark hump of a garage. After a moment, a truck, headlights off, slid down the alley. He shut the back door quietly and waited about five minutes before going out the front. The street was clear, with tiny specks of snow fluttering in the hollow glow of the streetlights.
30
The Toyota crept through the streets of Riverton, empty except for the 4×4s and sedans parked alongside the curb. Almost invisible snowflakes, like dots of rain, touched the windshield. The clouds were breaking up. It might stop snowing soon. Father John kept one eye on the rearview mirror—nothing but darkness. He began to breathe a little easier as he swung out onto the highway and headed south. It was possible Ty had passed Herb’s place earlier without seeing the Toyota pull into the parking lot.
Suddenly headlights appeared behind him. He pulled out to pass a semi, watching to see if the headlights also pulled out. They stayed back. Just short of Arapaho Junction, he turned onto Seventeen-Mile Road, darkness swallowing the space in the rearview mirror. Another mile and he wheeled into the mission. The grounds glistened with new snow, and the buildings stood out in ghostly relief against the faint moonlight.
He parked in front of the priests’ residence and hurried inside. The hallway stretched ahead, silent and gloomy in the darkness. Somewhere beneath the floorboards the furnace was hissing, but the house felt almost as cold as outdoors.
He flipped the wall switch in his office, strode over to the phone on his desk, and punched in 911. He waited, thumping his fist against the desk top. The instant the operator came on the line, he said, “This is Father O’Malley. Put me through to Chief Banner.”
The operator began explaining that the chief was off duty. “This is an emergency,” Father John interrupted. He could almost taste his own impatience.
The line went dead for a couple of minutes. Then he heard, “Jesus H. Christ, John. It’s past midnight. Don’t you priests ever sleep?”
Father John sank into the familiar chair behind his desk and related everything Marcus had told him. He had the chief’s attention—he sensed the intensity in the silence at the other end of the line.
“Where’s Marcus now?” Banner asked.
“He wants to come in, but he needs some assurance he won’t go back to prison.”
“He’s violated probation, for Chrissake. The feds are probably gonna drop him down the prison hole and leave him there,” the chief said. “But that kid doesn’t have a choice. He can’t hide forever. Those white men will find him eventually. If he wants to save his lousy skin, he’s gotta get himself over to Fort Washakie.”
“He won’t do it, Banner. You know Marcus. He’ll take his chances. Soon as he figures out how to leave the old people so they’ll be okay, he’ll take off.” Father John felt certain of this. Otherwise Marcus would have been gone by now. There was good in him. “You need him, Banner. There are murderers and a synthetic heroin lab on the reservation.”
Father John could hear the chief take in a couple of deep breaths before telling him, “I’ll get back to you first thing tomorrow.”
“What about tonight, Banner?”
“Jesus, John. Give me a break.”
There was a click, followed by the dial tone, and Father John pushed in Vicky�
��s number. He let it ring a long time, his anxiety growing. Finally he slammed down the receiver, pulled on his parka, and strode back into the frigid night. Crossing the center of the mission, he followed the rutted road toward the guest house. “Please be here,” he said out loud into the cold air.
The small house looked as if it had drifted with the snow into the clump of cottonwoods, the leafless branches laced together above the peaked roof. There was no sign of Vicky’s Bronco. He could hear his heart pounding. She wasn’t at home. She wasn’t here. Where was she?
As he got closer, he saw the churned snow outside the front door, the tire tracks running toward the far side of the house, and the glint of the rear bumper just past the corner. Thank God, Vicky’s rational side had won out. He was about to knock, then decided against it. Vicky and Susan both needed their rest. First thing tomorrow, he would try talking to Vicky again. He had to convince her that Susan should go to the police, for her own safety.
* * *
The house where the Jesuits of St. Francis Mission had lived for more than a century groaned in the quiet. Father Peter was asleep upstairs, Walks-on in the corner of the kitchen. A few minutes ago the dog had pattered down the hallway, toenails clicking against the linoleum, and stuck his head through the doorway. Then he had pattered back, a sentry assured all was well.
Father John stood at the window in his study, sipping hot coffee and waiting for Banner’s call. The moonlight outlined the humps and swales of the white landscape, while, in the distance, the black mass of the Wind River Mountains rose into the silver sky. He was trying to figure out the missing part of the syllogism. Locate the missing part and the conclusion is obvious, he used to tell his students. Somewhere on the reservation three white men had set up a laboratory to produce a drug called fentanyl, a synthetic heroin. They had hired two Indians to deliver the drug to Denver, from where it could be transported across the country.
Who had the capability to produce and distribute synthetic heroin nationwide? A drug cartel? The thought of a drug cartel moving onto the reservation sent an involuntary shiver down his spine. Yet it made sense. A drug cartel could handle the entire operation. And it would know how to handle the profits—run the cash through offshore banks, launder it through legitimate businesses. What was it, then, that bothered him?
He whirled around, spilling coffee onto the carpet, and started pacing in front of the desk. Marcus had said he and Rich brought the cash back to the reservation. Suitcases full of cash! That was it—the missing piece he hadn’t been able to locate. How could anybody dispose of that kind of cash in the middle of Wyoming? Deposit it? Maybe, but banks would report any amount above ten thousand dollars. And a constant influx of large deposits into the area’s small banks would attract a lot of attention. No, banks were too risky.
Maybe the cartel intended to ship the profits back to Denver or to Los Angeles. He imagined large semis stashed with money rolling down the highway. But if that were the case, why bring the cash back to the reservation? Unless . . .
Father John stopped pacing and stared out the window again. He could hardly believe what he was thinking; it was preposterous, but it could work. The cartel intended to launder the drug money right here by constructing a large recreation center that would eventually metamorphose into a casino. It would be a closed system on an Indian reservation—production, distribution, and money laundering. He’d heard about something like this on the big Navajo reservation a few years ago. He’d never imagined it would happen at Wind River.
Father John drained the last of the coffee and stared into the night. Maybe he was grasping at straws, hitching onto some outlandish theory to save St. Francis Mission. So far he’d batted .500 with his theories. It wasn’t Marcus Deppert’s body in the ditch; it was Rich Dolby’s. But Gary was the killer; he had been right about that.
If this new theory came close to the mark, it meant Nick Sheldon, the Los Angeles lawyer, dispatched here to buy St. Francis Mission and build a recreation center, was in charge of the entire operation. He had purchased the two Jeeps under the name of Steve Nichols, his own initials reversed. And Sheldon answered to the cartel—the Z Group.
Father John debated about returning to the guest house to wake Vicky. He wanted her to know they were up against an organization more powerful and deadly than either could have imagined. Rich Dolby and Annie Chambeau had gotten in the way and had paid with their lives. The people who worked for the Z Group wouldn’t hesitate to kill again.
He pulled back his cuff and checked his watch. Ten minutes past two. He’d wait until daylight. If he woke Vicky now, she’d spend the rest of the night worrying. Besides, it was still just a theory. He had no proof.
The jangling telephone broke into his thoughts. He crossed back to the desk and picked up the receiver, hoping the ringing hadn’t awakened Father Peter. He knew the old man had taken the hall phone up the stairs with him when he went to bed.
“John, you there?” It was Banner.
“Yes.” Father John was surprised. He’d hoped Banner would contact the FBI agent right away, but he’d been prepared to wait until morning.
“Radio call just came in from the Riverton police.”
Father John closed his eyes, afraid of what Banner would say.
“They got a double homicide. Indian man, white woman, both about twenty-five. Night clerk at the Buffalo Motel on the north side heard the shots about thirty minutes ago and called the police. Looks like a real professional job. Perpetrator’s long gone, as you might expect. No positive IDs on the bodies yet.”
Father John’s mouth went dry. His breath came in quick, burning gulps. “Marcus and a woman named Jennifer Smith,” he managed.
“That’s what I was afraid of,” Banner said. “That poor son-of-a-bitch. He should’ve gotten his ass over to Fort Washakie like I told ya.”
“I’m going to the motel.”
Banner said, “Yeah. I thought you might want to do that.”
31
Four black-and-white police cars stood at odd angles in the snow-shrouded parking lot, circles of red and blue lights flashing into the gray night. Yellow tape enclosed most of the lot. A neon sign blinked BUFFALO MOTEL, except the U was dark. White doors looking like tombstones lined the side of the low brick building, with knots of people huddled on the sidewalk, parkas flung over their pajamas. A couple of uniformed police officers stood guard outside the center door.
Father John nosed the Toyota into the yellow tape and slammed out of the cab. Stepping over the tape, he walked toward the policemen, one of whom came to meet him. He identified himself, and the policeman waved him on. Another opened the door, and he stepped into the brightly lit room filled with uniformed officers, two detectives in suits, and a photographer who was weaving about. Everybody seemed to be talking at once, a chorus of rising and falling voices. Light from the large lamp in one corner streamed like sunshine over the two bodies on the bed.
“Father John O’Malley,” he said to one of the suits as he stepped through the crowd. The room went quiet. He had been to murder scenes before, but had seen nothing like this. Marcus and Jennifer lay side by side, naked, the white female body curled gently toward the slim, brown, male body, in the same attitude they’d taken in the chair a few hours earlier. Part of Jennifer’s face was gone, as was the top of Marcus’s head. Redblack blood as thick as jelly pooled around their heads and under their shoulders. She had a look of peace about her. Marcus’s eyes were open, frozen in death. He must have heard the killer burst through the door.
Father John made the sign of the cross over the bodies. “May the Lord preserve you and lift you up,” he said out loud. “May the Lord forgive you and show you His mercy and compassion and hold you in His arms. May you live forever in the House of the Lord.”
“Amen.” The voices were soft and reverent. Silence settled a moment. Then, “Is this Marcus Deppert?” a detective asked.
“Yes,” Father John said.
“How about the
woman?”
Father John told him what he knew: her name; that she had worked at Herb’s Place; that she came from somewhere else, possibly Cheyenne. He was thinking she had a little girl’s voice, and she and Marcus had been alive a short time ago.
* * *
A gust of wind swirled about, pelting the parking lot with little kernels of snow. Just as Father John was about to get into the Toyota, a white BIA police car skidded to a stop a few feet away. The driver’s door flung open, and Banner jumped out. “The old people gotta be told,” he said, his forehead creased in worry. “You wanna take care of that?”
“I don’t think so,” Father John said, sliding inside the cab and slamming the door.
* * *
The Toyota bumped over the ridge of ice at the edge of the parking lot. Father John hunched his shoulders against the cold and stared past the shimmering headlights into the darkness. How could he tell Joseph and Deborah Deppert he’d led Marcus’s killers straight to him? That the Dodge pickup had followed him all week looking for Marcus? That he’d seen it earlier tonight and should have known it was hiding in the shadows, waiting, waiting. That he’d done exactly what the killers had hoped? How could he ever explain?
He was shivering inside his parka; his hands were shaking, even though hot air poured from under the dashboard. How could this have happened? If he hadn’t been so worried about losing the mission, maybe he would have realized Marcus had to be in serious trouble to disappear the way he did. Maybe he would have tried harder to find him. And when he did find him, why hadn’t he insisted Marcus go directly to Fort Washakie? Why hadn’t he taken him?
The Ghost Walker Page 18